(Untitled)
by ChinaMusic
Summary: Tate Langdon has given up. He's given up on love, kindness and himself. Eighteen years have passed since the happenings of the Harmon family and he's grown cold. Could anyone reignite the fire that once resided in him?
1. Chapter 1

~ Chapter 1 ~

It was a quiet night.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in the feeling of fresh air filling his lungs. There was a hint of saltiness that the wind carried off the ocean; it swept its way into his window and offered hardly comforting nostalgia. He could barely remember the last time he was at the beach—he didn't want to; neither the sound of her voice like ocean waves crashing against the shore, nor her eyes that sparkled brighter than the starlit sky that night. No, he did not wish to remember.

He had grown bitter.

The days of longing for a person to cherish and adore had long since passed. His heart was a dark and cold cave that he regressed deeper into with every sunrise, brooding over a past flame that had provided light, only to be doused by his own actions. He no longer wished to protect anyone from the evils of this world; he saw himself as evil incarnate. He did not wish for someone to love; he couldn't even be bothered to love himself. He hardly interacted with the other souls in the house (not that they were particularly favorable) and appeared angry and belligerent when spoken to. Eighteen years had hardened him, changed him. Not outwardly, no—he still wore the same baby face that no one would take seriously. He still hid the same tired brown eyes under the same shaggy blonde hair. On the inside, he felt a thousand years old, rusted and broken, as if he were left out in the rain and forgotten years ago. But he would never forget. He couldn't.

He sighed and opened his eyes, staring out the window of what felt like a prison. He envied the owners that had come and gone in the past years, how they could just pack their belongings and leave this wretched house whenever they desired. Over the years, there had been an elderly couple here, a young couple with a newborn there. They were all the same to him: alive and able to do all the things he had been denied.

He got up from the chair he had placed in front of the window and decided wandering the house for the night would be more productive than sitting there contemplating the past.

* * *

At first light, he caught a glimpse of the sun rising over the horizon. He huffed and walked past the kitchen window to get a drink of water from the faucet. The house was in a constant cycle of being bought and sold; the only thing he appreciated was that there was almost always running water. He loved the feeling of the cool liquid running down his throat or the occasional shower with scalding hot water running down his back. Neither was necessary, but the pleasures of his existence were few and far between—he took advantage of them when he could.

As he finished the last few sips from the half-broken glass he found in the cupboard, he glared at Moira, who walked in and sat at the table.

"You don't look particularly cheery today," she said as she wiped some of the dust off the tabletop.

"What's it to you?" Tate countered in a bored tone, turning away from her to look out the window. The birds had begun chirping, awakening the neighborhood to face another day.

"Tate, when are you going to let this hatred go? It happened so long ago. There are more important things in life than having someone to love."

"I don't want anyone to love, I'm through with that." Tate could hardly stand to listen to her so-called advice, she was only angering him.

"All I'm saying is, Violet has long since moved on, and I think that-"

Tate threw his glass to the floor, where it shattered into a million pieces, cutting off Moira's soft-spoken voice.

"I don't wanna fucking hear about Violet! We stopped talking a long time ago. We ignore each other. I don't know what's going on with her, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm not bitter, I'm over it. I'm over her. What I have a problem dealing with are the stupid people who stay in this house who don't know when to mind their own god damn business." He walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs to an empty room. Pressing his hands to his eyes, he breathed heavily for a few moments, trying to recollect himself. He always did have a temper.

Moira sat alone at the table, feeling foolish for extending her help to someone so unappreciative. She sighed and looked out the window, seeing the birds taking flight and the sun getting brighter with every minute that passed. The sunrise had always inspired her, even after death. It was a chance for a new beginning, a fresh start to an unstained day. She smiled the smallest of smiles with hope in her eyes, and thought to herself: _Maybe things will start looking up today._

* * *

A few hours later, Tate was walking the perimeter of the house. It was one of the few things that calmed his anger, feeling the breeze on his face and feeling the soft green grass on his bare feet. Did it make him happy? No, rarely anything did anymore. But it calmed him like nothing else. As he continued his walk, he noticed a car drive slowly up to the house and eventually stop. His entire existence had seemed hazy for some time, so he was unaware of the notion that a new family might be moving into the house. The only person who really put up with him was Moira, and there was no way he could ask her about the on-goings of the house, not after how he treated her that morning. He did not wish for company, but digging through the possessions of the owners was among the main activities he did to keep himself occupied. _Maybe they have board games_, he thought to himself, _maybe even videotapes and CDs_. He kept his focus on the vehicle, and watched as a man, a woman and two adolescents got out. _Typical family_ he thought cynically. He saw a moving truck coming down the road and his heartbeat accelerated a bit as it stopped behind the family's car. He eyed the truck and saw countless boxes and containers that were nearly spilling out. There was finally something for him to focus on, other than his less than ideal past. He smiled the smallest of smiles with hope in his eyes, and thought to himself: _Maybe things will start looking up today._


	2. Chapter 2

~ Chapter 2 ~

Tate had been lurking amongst the new owners of the Murder House for hours now, spending a great deal of time studying each family member. The mother seemed to be interested in home decorating and do-it-yourself projects. She had an endless collection of magazines on the stuff. She had also, in about five hours' time, downed nearly an entire bottle of wine. He'd heard about christening a new home, but this was a bit ridiculous. Concluding that the mother was a stumbling drunk who was desperate to decorate anything and everything, he moved onto the next family member: the father. Tate watched closely as he unloaded tools and supplies in one of the back rooms. _Typical Mr. Fix It father. _While the man was out by the truck, he rummaged through some of the boxes he had brought in. Baseball stuff, DVDs, a clearly unused abdominal workout machine. _Could this family get any more white-picket-fence?_ Bored with the fathers belongings, Tate wandered upstairs to the empty room he spent the most time in, only to find it cluttered with boxes and bags. A quick peek into the boxes told him that a teenage boy would be taking over **his** room. Irritated that the boy couldn't have picked any other bedroom in the house, he left to check up on the other teenager he saw getting out of the car.

He stood in the arch of the doorway, watching with distaste as a teenage girl unpacked book after book onto an antique shelf. He walked into the room with a condescending look on his face, fully aware that she could not see him, but feeling powerful nonetheless. Amongst the scattered mess he stalked, his eyes burning a hole in the back of her head as she sat on the floor, unpacking her beloved books with care. The adoration she showed by simply cradling the books in her hands, occasionally flipping through pages and smelling the aged paper sickened him. He wondered to himself how someone could show so much affection to something so trivial. Tate sat on the bed, watching her handle her precious cargo and decided that she would be the type of person who invested far too much emotion in every situation. Those kinds of people irritated him to the utmost and were often the victims of his malicious games. In past years, he had made an effort to become acquainted with the occupants of the house; he saw no reason to start up that nasty habit again. He figured getting close to people was toxic, like smoke being breathed into pure lungs—it felt good at first, almost exhilarating. Over time, however, it became poisonous. Deciding he had seen enough, he left the room, hoping that the family would keep out of his way.

Later on that evening, Tate and Moira sat in the kitchen together in silence. Tate had no intention of uttering an apology for his behavior that morning, and Moira had no expectation of one. It was an uncomfortable silence for Tate, he couldn't stand the piercing awkwardness of silence. He much preferred having voices fill the air—hell, even angry voices were better than being left alone with his thoughts.

"Marilyn, why don't you start planning out the decorations for our new home?" the father of the family impatiently suggested, following his wife into the kitchen. The wife had a fresh bottle of wine in her hand, and was rummaging through the boxes of dishes to find a glass.

"I don't feel like decorating right now, I'm still upset we had to move in the first place," Marilyn stated, smiling in success as she pulled out a wine glass.

"What, are you gonna throw that one against the wall too?" her husband muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the counter. Moira understood what was about to happen and ducked out of the kitchen quietly, but not before sending a tiny smile in Tate's direction. He ignored it and hopped up onto a counter, ready to watch the showdown.

"Patronizing me is _really_ going to solve this fight, isn't it Leo? It seems to be the only argument you ever have," she said bitterly, pouring a glass of the wine to the rim. "You should have tried that move on your boss when he fired you, maybe it would have won him over."

Leo took two strides and grabbed the glass before she could even lift it to her lips. "You've had enough for tonight." He dumped the cheap wine down the drain, which resulted in an offended scoff from his wife.  
"Who the hell do you think you are? I'm a grown woman and I can make my own decisions." And with that, she raised the bottle in a mock-toast to him and started gulping it down. Tate watched her, slightly amused, anticipating what the husband would do next. Leo tried to fight the bottle from his wife's grasp, in turn dropping her precious bottle to the floor. It shattered to a million pieces, and for every shard of glass, Marilyn's anger grew. "Look at what you've done!" She screamed in a shrill voice. "That was my last fucking bottle and you wasted it, you useless trash!" With hazy eyes and stumbling feet, she shoved her husband away from her and made her way out of the kitchen.

_This family gets more and more entertaining_ Tate thought wickedly. He eagerly awaited the father's next move, and was surprised by what he saw. Leo simply crouched down and began picking up the shards of glass. Tate had expected an explosion, an angry reaction, anything but the man humbly picking up after his wife's drunken outburst, gaining a few cuts in the process. He held the broken pieces in his hands, gazing down at them for a moment, and let a few tears slip down his cheeks. He saw in those broken shards the remnants of his marriage. Every time he tried to fix it, to pick up the pieces, he would end up wounded.

Tate recognized the raw emotion in the man's face and scoffed. Maybe in the past Tate would have done the same. But at some point, he knew his anger would take over. He was disappointed and enraged at the fact that the man didn't fight back, that he would just sit there and take that kind of mental abuse. He thought Leo to be weak and pathetic. Leaving the man with his emotion, Tate sulked out of the kitchen, unsatisfied with the fight. He went upstairs to sit in his chair and stare out the window, the same as any night.

* * *

After a few weeks of coexisting with the family, Tate decided it was time to play a few tricks on them. Nothing wildly wicked yet, just a few things here and there that will mess with them. For instance, he had fun rearranging the country-style living room design that the mother had set up while she was out grocery shopping. The look on her face was priceless in Tate's eyes. He hid things from the brother, who he had learned to know as Harvey. He was delighted when Harvey was late for his baseball game due to "misplacing" his bat, he smirked when Harvey had to pass up a pool party because all of his trunks were missing. Tate plainly liked to mess with people and ultimately put effort into making people as miserable as he was. His next prank would be executed on the teenage daughter of the family.

He walked the perimeter of the house, cooking up an especially devious plan for the bookworm. As his feet pressed into the soft grass, the wheels of his mind turned and turned. He was deep in thought when he stepped on something rather sharp. "Jesus Christ," he grumbled as he checked to see the damage done to his foot. He picked up the object that had stabbed him and smiled devilishly at a stick that had fallen off a tree.

He gathered a few supplies that the father had stored in the basement and shoved them into a drawstring backpack. Tate made his way up to the girl's room, feeling safe knowing that she and her brother were at school and the parents were at work. He felt no need to conceal himself, a luxury that he had forgotten since the family seemed to always be in the house. He passed Moira on his way up the stairs. She had long since forgiven him for his ridiculous outburst, and smiled a warm smile. "What are you up to young man?"

"I got a plan that's gonna wreck the girl today," he said to Moira proudly. She frowned in response and shook her head.

"Why would you trouble Hazel like that? She hasn't done a thing to you," Moira said with disappointment in her voice. Tate let out an annoyed sigh and started walking up the stairs again.

"Just don't make it something I have to clean up," Moira said sternly. She had introduced herself as the maid of the house a couple of weeks ago, and didn't want any of Tate's horrible pranks blamed on her.

When Tate got into her room, it smelled faintly of her perfume and of course, books. He coughed overdramatically and started looking around, taking his time since he wasn't in a rush. He made his way to her desk, and saw countless knick knacks and useless items that only a packrat would collect. On the desk was a single book. "_Fight Club_?" Tate said in a lame tone. He skimmed through the book with judging eyes, but stuffed it into his bag, thinking it could provide him with some entertainment. He also grabbed a spinning top, a notebook and a pencil, justifying that anything in the house was just as much his as it was theirs. Taking a box of matches out of his bag, he grabbed the first paperback book he saw. _A Clockwork Orange_ seemed like the perfect specimen to start off his prank. He lit up a match, brought the flame to the pages and watched as the book was engulfed in blue and yellow flames. The smell of smoke filled the room and he reveled in his handiwork, breathing it in and eyeing the book with malice in his eyes. Just as he was about to set the book down and grab another, he heard a heartbroken gasp from the doorway. A schoolbag hit the floor and he turned around quicker than ever. Seeing the horror in the girl's eyes, she barely managed to sputter out, "Who-who the hell are you?!" before he dropped the book to the floor. She ran to douse the fire and he darted past her, concealing himself once he was out of her view.

Hazel Graham was scared, angry and heartbroken. She was shaken at the fact that someone had broken into her home, and horrified at what they had done to one of her favorite books. After she had stomped the fire out, she sat for a moment, mourning the ashes of her beloved novel. She cleaned up the mess and knocked on her brother's door. "What do you want?" he called from inside the room.

"It's an emergency," she said, frightened. He could tell by her voice that something wasn't right, and immediately opened the door.

"What happened?" he asked, slightly alarmed on the inside but showing no sign on the outside.

"Someone broke into our house, he was in my room—he was setting things on fire and—"

"Did you see where he went?" he asked defensively.

"He ran past me, down the stairs. He might be in the basement," she said, unsure.

After checking the basement and finding nothing, Harvey told his sister there was nothing they could do but be prepared and wait.

Nothing unusual happened for about a week and a half; Tate was too angry with himself for getting caught so early on in his little game. He was angry at that girl for ruining his fun. He decided it would be best to keep a low profile until they stopped worrying. In that time, he wrote, drew pictures and watched the top spin round and round. He was bored out of his skull and concocted a new plan of attack to keep himself entertained.

Marilyn and Hazel were sitting in the lounge, basking in the golden hue of the afternoon sun peeking in through the windows. Hazel was engulfed in a book while her mother was absorbed in a glass of the familiar cheap wine. As Harvey was coming down the stairs, there was a knock at the door. He answered the door, curious as to who it was since none of the new neighbors had acquainted themselves yet, and was pleasantly surprised and what he saw. "Hello," he said with a friendly tone to his voice.

"Hi, I'm Tate Langdon. I'm from the neighborhood."


End file.
